


No Rest For The Weary

by unwhithered



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Musketeers as Jedi, Star Wars AU, an appearance by Master Treville, set between the phantom menace and attack of the clones, very non traditional jedi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-05
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-03-14 08:25:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13586175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unwhithered/pseuds/unwhithered
Summary: Padawan d'Artagnan and his Master have gone missing on a sensitive diplomatic mission. Fresh off of a three month mission in the desert, Jedi Knights Athos, Aramis and Porthos are sent to their rescue - but will they be too late?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to fuzzytale for betaing me as always. And for dragging me reluctantly into this fandom.
> 
> This fic is complete and will be updated on usually on Sundays.

“Three weeks, it has been, since last we heard from Master Dell and his padawan learner,” Yoda’s flickering figure says from the center of the small ship’s communications console.

“And we have been in the desert for three  _ months _ ,” Aramis points out, not even trying to keep the exhausted irritation out of his voice. He’s been sunburned since they set foot on that Force-forsaken planet, despite the strongest UV blockers the Order could supply, and Athos’ usually pale skin is seared bright red and peeling away in sheets. He wants to go home - they  _ all _ want to go home, to real water showers and beds actually designed for full sized human men.

“And we appreciate your service, Knight Aramis,” Master Windu cuts in, appearing at the edge of the hologram. Aramis loses whatever slim hope he had of talking their way out of another mission, letting his head sag in defeat. “But you are the only unassigned Jedi in the quadrant, and time is of the essence. We have reason to believe that Master and Padawan are being held captive by one of the local governments they were sent to negotiate peace between. Details of their mission will be transmitted to you within the hour. For now, you have been sent the coordinates.”

“Leave immediately, you must. See great pain on this planet, I do.”

“Yes, masters,” Aramis sighs.

“Of course, masters,” Athos adds, making a cursory bow. “We will await your message and update you when we arrive at our destination.”

“May the Force be with you,” the Council members reply before the holo blinks out, leaving Aramis and Athos alone in the darkened bridge of their little ship. It isn’t much to look at, about as dinged up and worn out on the inside as it is on the outside, with just enough space for three Jedi and the few belongings they each have.

“Porthos won’t be happy,” Aramis comments, glancing back at the closed door to the tiny crew cabin where their friend sleeps.

“Porthos will live.” Athos lowers himself into the pilot’s chair with a tired groan. “We all will. It’s far from our longest time in the field.” Something clinks as Athos reaches beneath the console - a bottle, which he uncorks and takes a long draw from. Aramis winces. The one benefit of being on an active mission is that it dries Athos out, at least temporarily. “I’ll set the course and take first watch. Sleep while you can, the jump to our destination will only take 24 standard.”

After a moment’s hesitation, looking distrustfully at the bottle Athos is once again holding to his lips, Aramis gives it up for a lost cause and heads silently into the cabin. Porthos will wake soon enough and wrestle Athos into a bunk - he’s better at it.

\--------

Athos wakes to a hand on his shoulder gently tugging him back until his cheek comes unstuck from something with a painful smacking sound. Groaning, he touches his cheek and finds patterns imprinted into the burned skin above his overgrown beard. Right, he had been drinking on the bridge. Must have fallen asleep.

“Time’s’it?” he mumbles, rubbing at his bleary eyes. He hates being woken up by someone else, being seen like this, hungover and barely coherent. 

“Time for a shower,” Porthos replies with a laugh. Big hands grip beneath Athos’ arms and haul him bodily to his feet. “You smell like a bar.”

Feet dragging, Athos lets himself be manhandled down the short hall while a much cleaner and more alert Aramis takes his place at the console. The fresher is barely big enough to fit one man, let alone two, yet porthos follows him anyway and jams the door shut behind them. Before he can protest that he isn’t so drunk he needs help - this time, at least - Athos has been forcefully divested of his robe, belt and outer tunic. Batting Porthos’ big hands away, Athos undresses the rest of the way himself and steps into the shower cubicle. His hand is hovering sadly over the sonic shower button when Porthos reaches past him to turn the water on.

For the first time in three months a shock of real, cold water hits him, pouring down from the ceiling. He’s certainly awake now. “Shouldn’t waste it,” he says, but makes no move to turn the water off. Kriff, the cold feels good on his burned and peeling skin.

Porthos has taken a seat on the toilet that is crammed behind the door, across from the small sink and mirror, so close that his knees are up against the cabinet beneath. Athos wants to ask if Porthos thinks he has another bottle hidden in here, if he’s become such a drunk that he can’t even be trusted to bathe alone. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t want to know the answer, maybe, and just doesn’t care. The three of them have spent so long living out of each others’ pockets that privacy is irrelevant.

“We’re headed to a swamp planet. We can refill the tank there, and we’ve got enough for all of us to wash now. Aramis already took his turn. Now scrub, you’ve only got five minutes.”

“From a desert to a swamp,” Athos grumbles. He’ll do his duty, always, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy about it.

“At least swamps have water. And shade, if we’re lucky,” Porthos chuckles, too loud for Athos’ aching head. “You’re as red as an Onderon lily.”

“Aramis can heal the burns, once he’s rested,” Athos points out around a yawn. Dispelling a hangover or hurrying along the mending of a scrape or twisted ankle are the extent of his Force healing abilities, but Aramis’ gentle fingers have been soothing the worst of the burns every few days. He hates to impose, but another layer of skin sloughs off as he washes his face, leaving raw skin beneath that stings to the touch.

“Mhmm,” Porthos hums. “Time’s up. My turn.”

Awake, but thoroughly hungover, Athos turns off the water and steps out as naked as the day he was born. There are no towels, so he dries off with his robe - which could do with a wash too, or perhaps just an incinerator - and stands in front of the sink as Porthos steps into the shower. His broad shoulders fill the entire space between shower wall and door.

“Next time, we’re demanding a bigger ship,” Porthos says, just like he always does. He groans happily anyway, stretching like a cat, his fingers brushing the ceiling.

Athos is too busy staring at himself in the mirror to make his standard reply in the well worn conversation about inadequate supplies. The man in the mirror would be unrecognizable if not for the haunted eyes staring back at him. His hair and beard have both been lightened by the twenty hours of sunlight every day on their last mission, and both are far too long. A moment of concentration - a frivolous use of the Force - and he has squeezed every drop of water out of his hair. Deciding it’s a problem for later, he ties it back with a leather band and sets to work on his beard instead.

By the time Porthos steps out of the shower, Athos looks and feels far more himself - and has enough energy to draw the Force into himself and use it to burn away his hangover. Porthos takes his turn at the mirror while Athos goes in search of something to wear, finding a clean set of tunics already set out for him in the cabin.

\--------

“You decided to keep the beard after all, I see,” Aramis comments, startling Porthos. He didn’t think Aramis, sprawled in the pilot’s chair watching hyperspace stream past their viewscreen, could see him where he’s hunched over the comms unit reading their orders. Then again, Aramis often seems to see everything.

“Seemed a waste of time to shave when we’ve got no idea how long this mission will take,” he replies with a shrug. Scrolling through the briefing with one hand, he strokes the full beard that has replaced his usually neat goatee with the other.

“I think it makes you look distinguished.” Aramis looks over his shoulder with a charming grin and a twinkle in his eyes that Porthos would call flirtatious on anyone else. It’s just Aramis, though, who has been looking at Porthos like that since they were children together in the creche. Like he hung the stars, his master used to say. Porthos grins back, real and wide, his eyes scrunching up at the corners.

“Very handsome indeed,” Athos deadpans, clapping Porthos on the back as he passes by to lean against Aramis’ chair and peer at the nav computer. “If looks alone could lead us to victory, we might be the most successful Jedi in the Order.”

“Are we not already?”

Athos cuffs Aramis lightly on the back of the head rather than respond. “How much longer?”

“Two hours and we’ll be over the capitol city of Da’nat, on the northern continent. Last time Master Dell checked in it was from the royal residences there, to say that peace negotiations between the continental governments were going more slowly than anticipated.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this one,” Porthos grumbles, thumbing off the comms unit. There’s little of use in the briefing sent to them by the Council - once more, they’ll be making things up as they go along. “There’s been a blood feud between these nations for a hundred years. There should’ve been more than two Jedi here from the start.”

“Agreed,” Athos says. “But complaints are pointless now. We have a job to do. Let’s just hope we aren’t too late.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said that this was going to be updated on Sundays, but I'm stuck in PDX on a ten hour layover so I did a little editing and here's the next bit.
> 
> (the sequel may...already be in progress, with a bit posted on my tumblr, where I also go by unwhithered)

Porthos watches as Athos and Aramis are escorted toward the palace by armed guards with trepidation. His skin is crawling with the wrongness of this planet, the tension he can feel boiling just below the surface. Letting their hosts think only two Jedi have been sent to investigate the disappearances may make sense, but that doesn’t mean he has to like letting them out of his sight.

He gives it half an hour, pacing the ship restlessly until he feels the city guards’ attention on their ship wane before quietly slipping out the back hatch. He’s too big to go unnoticed easily among the five foot tall native population, at least if he was a common man. Nondescript, non Jedi robes and a subtle application of the Force to encourage passersby to look right past him allows him to walk right out of the city’s main hangar without notice.

Outside he draws a deep breath of warm air so thick with moisture it feels like soup and spends a moment getting his bearings. The city is laid out in a grid, with the hangar on the outskirts and the palace complex at its center. Between them are five thick, heavily guarded walls separating commoners from nobility, civilians from military, and preparing the city for seige. Pitted walls and scorched buildings show the history of exactly that.

Porthos lets his senses expand as he wanders through the market district that takes up the outermost ring. There is fear here, most citizens hurrying through the streets with their heads down, glancing sidelong at the city guards posted on every corner and keeping their transactions quick and gruff. When Porthos stops to buy a sweet bun and a bottled drink from an outdoor vendor his attempt at making conversation is rebuffed despite his most charming smile, and he meets the same response at a clothing store where he buys a scarf patterned with the local subdued colors. Tying it over his hair, he heads for the next wall.

There is little of interest in the slums, and less in the uniform apartment blocks of the common people, except the guards who watch people pass from every corner. What interests him most is that the feeling of fear lurks even among the mansions of the richest citizens. Just like in every other district, there are large screens in the public squares flashing the faces of people labeled terrorists and war criminals, mixed among updates from the front where open warfare has erupted once more in the past few weeks. There is no place in the city where the war can be forgotten, even for a moment.

When he reaches the wall that separates the military garrison he turns rather than attempting to cloak himself in the Force and enter. Wandering along the tallest and most heavily guarded barrier so far, he stretches out into the Force. Something tugs at him, and he follows. He’s never had the gift of foresight, or experienced the visions that some Jedi receive, but his sense for trouble has never failed him yet. There is a Force user somewhere inside those walls. Dampened, weak, but there. Growling, he reaches further, taps into the bond that has formed over a lifetime with Aramis and Athos.

_ They’re here. _

\-------

“We are here to see the King, not his servants” Athos says, looking right through the man in front of them as if he isn’t even there. 

“The King is too busy to see every diplomatic envoy who feels entitled to his attention,” their host replies, the corners of his lips curling in disdain. The First Minister of Ras is shorter even than the average citizen of Da’nat, and draped in such heavy and elaborately embroidered robes that he looks bowed by them. Aramis doesn’t like the look of him, or his oily presence in the Force, and he isn’t inclined to trust any human who can wear that much clothing in the swampy, oppressive heat that has followed them even into the palace. “Especially those who come unannounced. You will deal with me, or no one.”

“You don’t seem to understand the urgency of our mission.” Pacing closer, his boots nearly silent on the tiled floor, Athos leans his hands on the desk separating them from the Minister. “Two Jedi have gone missing. They were last heard from in this very building, three weeks ago. And though they were sent to negotiate peace at your government’s request, our every attempt at communication since their disappearance has been dismissed or ignored.”

“On the contrary,” the Minister says, spreading his hands and shrinking back slightly in Athos’ shadow, “we have told the Council all we know. Your emissaries were of no use to us. My king dismissed them and they departed with the ambassadors of our enemies. We have heard nothing of them since, and good riddance.”

“Good riddance?” Aramis snaps, speaking for the first time since they entered the grand palace complex that stretches over several square miles. It is nearly always Athos’ job to speak to dignitaries in delicate situations - he keeps a cooler head and somehow, despite being raised as a Jedi since he was too small to really remember his family of birth, still carries himself with the regal bearing of someone born to power. Aramis has less patience in his heart and less weight in his words, despite his Master’s best efforts. “ _Good riddance?_ _You_ requested _our_ help, and we sent it in good faith. Now you all but spit in our faces when we come in need of your help to find Jedi who disappeared on your watch.”

“Requesting the help of your Order was a mistake we will not make again.” The Minister stands, pushing his chair back, and glares at them from a foot and a half below Aramis. He hardens his expression and glares back. “Your friends asked for too many concessions. The terms of the deal they negotiated were an insult to my king, so he sent them away. That is the last we know of your friends. I suppose there is some small chance they were killed in one of the ensuing battles, for there have been many these past weeks - and we are prevailing.”

“We would know if they were--” Something prickles at the back of Aramis’ mind, cutting him off mid-sentence. The presence feels like sunshine, tastes like laughter on the back of his tongue, and he opens his shields automatically to Porthos.  _ They’re here _ , echoes inside his head.

_ Where? _ Athos’ voice joins in, bringing with it a sense of focused willpower and tension that was not always there - not when they were young together. Aloud, Athos lets his disdain bleed into his tone, “I do not believe that our comrades are dead, but perhaps you are correct about their whereabouts. We will take our leave of you, sir, but you  _ will _ hear from us again, when we find them.”

Aramis does not speak, bites back the urge to yell in this man’s face that they will unearth the truth behind every one of his lies. Instead he nods curtly turns on his heel to follow Athos, who is strolling toward the door far too calmly for Aramis’ taste.

_ The prison. Only one of them. The other is in the city, somewhere. Not sure where yet. _

_ You work miracles, my friend _ , Aramis replies.  _ We will meet you at the ship. _

\------------

By the time Athos and Aramis lose the guards tailing them, darkness has fallen over Da’nat. It doesn’t feel like night to Porthos, whose internal clock is still calibrated to the long days of the desert, but the city is beginning to shutter itself -at least the respectable parts. All the better that Porthos isn’t concerned with his respectability. He has staked out a corner table in the kind of dingy bar where no one looks too hard at the strange man in the corner for fear of starting a fight. 

There are plenty of people still drinking and playing cards here, and Porthos itches to join a game - instead he nurses a tall glass of the bitter alcohol brewed from a local fruit and tracks his friends’ progress across the city by feel. When they enter the slums, he orders another two drinks. 

The drinks arrive just as Aramis slides into the seat across from him.

“Took you long enough,” Porthos grumbles, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Some of us had to do an honest day’s work,” Aramis teases. The robe and tunics he was wearing when they parted ways are gone, doubtless dumped in some alley after ditching their tail. The soft tan undershirt he’s been left with is hanging open far enough to show a strip of chest hair and sweaty skin. A glance sideways shows Athos in much the same state of undress, with his usual sash tied around his hips to cover the lightsabers belted there.

“I’m the one who found our cargo,” Porthos points out, narrowing his eyes and prodding Aramis beneath the table with his boot. “All you did was stall.”

“Porthos is correct. I would hardly call anything we did today  _ honest _ , Aramis.” Tipping his head to Porthos, Athos takes a seat - and a hearty drink from the glass in front of him. “Thank you for your work, and for the drinks, my friend. You continue to prove invaluable. Now, tell us about this jail.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and feedback are love


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last one was early, this one is late - I guess it balances out? I was traveling all weekend. Next update should actually be on time.

Darkness has brought little relief from the humid heat in Da’nat. Sweat prickles the back of Aramis’ neck and sticks even his loose, thin shirt to his chest. The cloth is so damp as to be nearly useless when he wipes the sleeve across his forehead. Squinting, he watches one guard, then two enter the small tower atop the wall. If their pattern holds, as Porthos said it did all day, they won’t come out to do another pass for half an hour. It’s lazy and ill conceived, and thus exactly the type of behavior to be expected from an underpaid and overworked police force.

One sharp whistle, then a second pierce the air - the signal. Aramis steps from the shadows of the building he has been lurking beside, takes two long strides, and reaches for the Force. He clears the wall with ease and lands in a crouch on the other side, immediately grabbing the guard stationed inside the closed gate and clapping a hand over his mouth.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, putting enough compulsion behind the word that he’s unlikely to wake until dawn. As he eases the man to the ground in the gate alcove, Aramis whistles once to signal the all clear.

Athos lands softly as Aramis turns, followed closely by Porthos - who lands in a roll and stands with a flourish. Athos catches Aramis’ gaze and rolls his eyes before leading the way across the small courtyard between the outer wall and the jail itself. He melts into the shadows on the other side, while Aramis pauses for a moment to look around, and narrows his eyes at a corner. The camera positioned there is suddenly pointed up at the sky, seeing nothing but the occasional bat gliding in front of the moon.

\------------

“In here,”Aramis says, nodding toward one of many nondescript cell doors in one of many long halls they have passed through so far. There are hundreds of prisoners here, and their pain and despair sets Athos’ teeth on edge. Torture, apparently, is not illegal on this planet, nor are there effective rules to protect prisoners of war.

Porthos steps forward, touching the locking mechanism on the door. None of the guards they quietly knocked out on the way had a key on them, but it hardly matters. Athos feels a brief surge in the Force, followed soon after by a soft hiss as the door slides open to reveal the small cell within. After a quick glance down the hall, Athos steps inside, leaving his companions to stand guard.

What he finds is hardly a relief.

Athos bites back a curse and kneels beside the Togruta crumpled in the corner. Master Dell had stood tall and proud in the holo sent to them by the Council. Now his deep black lekku have faded to a sickly gray, and thick blue blood coats the half of his face Athos can see. Uncomfortable static buzzes along Athos’ skin when he carefully rolls Dell over - doubtless caused by being so close to the Force-dampening cuffs locked tight around the Master’s forearms.

A quick flash of his lightsaber solves the problem, though Athos winces as the cuffs clatter noisily to the floor.

“Master Dell,” he murmurs, shaking him gently with one hand and returning his lightsaber to his belt with the other. “Master,” he imbues his touch with a hint of the Force, “we were sent by the Council to rescue you.”

The old Togruta coughs wetly and pushes up onto his elbows, trying to scramble away from Athos’ touch. Kriff it, he should have let Aramis do this - he’s a far more reassuring presence to wake up to. Athos knows from experience.

“Master, it’s alright,” he tries again, hands raised palm out in a gesture of peace. “My name is Athos de la Fere. I am a Knight of the Jedi Order, and I am here to rescue you. And your padawan as well, though we cannot seem to locate him.”

“The Order…” Squinting at Athos through blood crusted eyes, Dell frowns - then laughs bitterly. “It took you long enough. Too long, perhaps, for me.”

“We cannot talk here, Master,” Athos replies, eying Dell up and down. “I take it you cannot walk.”

Another laugh. “No, boy, I cannot.”

“Porthos! Come, lend me your strength.”

“You know, a touch of the Force and you could do this as easy as me,” Porthos grumbles, no actual sting behind the words as he stoops to lift Master Dell as easily as he would a child. “‘Pologize, Master, this’ll be a bumpy ride.”

“What are a few more aches and pains to a dying man? Take me from this horrible place. We must find my padawan.”

“Now, don’t talk like that, Master. Our Aramis is a very fine healer. He’ll have you fixed up in no time.” The words are empty, and they all know it. Aramis catches Athos’ eye as he leaves the cell and tilts his head, giving it a gentle shake - he might be able to give the old Master a little more time, but his wounds are mortal. If nothing else, they cannot replenish all the blood he has lost.

“We have only a few minutes left until the next patrol,” Athos says, shaking off his dark thoughts. “We must hurry, and stay as quiet as possible.”

\--------------

_ He’s not gonna make it to the ship _ , Porthos thinks loudly, with what little of his mind isn’t divided between balancing Dell on his shoulder and projecting an aura of  _ nothing to see here _ at the few passersby. Thank the Force, hardly anyone is out at this hour - at least not in the respectable parts of town.

_ Your negativity is not appreciated _ , Aramis responds a moment later. His presence feels tense and something verging on angry, doubtless from being too late to save their target, but beneath it there is Aramis’ familiar energy. The relief of a cool breeze on a hot day in Coruscant, the wonder and mystery and beauty of looking up at an endless field of stars. Porthos takes a deep breath, as though he can absorb that feeling that reminds him of home, and adjusts Dell on his shoulder.

_ Perhaps, but he is correct, _ Athos projects.

_ He is, _ Aramis admits, glancing over his shoulder before disappearing to scout around the next corner.  _ We must find somewhere to rest, and if nothing else I can give him a little more time, and far less pain. _

_ Go, then. Find us somewhere suitably disreputable, that will not question three men hauling a bloody non-human along. Porthos and I will follow. _

_ I do not like to leave you when the guards will discover the dear Master’s absence at any moment _ , Aramis hedges, his presence still lingering just around the corner.

_ Do it anyway _ , Athos replies, projecting steely willpower between them until Aramis gives in and darts away with unnatural speed.

_ You know he hates it when you push him like that _ , Porthos comments, slowing to allow Athos to take the point position. The back of his neck prickles uncomfortably at the vulnerability of having no one to watch his back.

_ I know. But sometimes I must. _

Silence, both mental and audible, reigns between them as they follow in Aramis’ footsteps. At least, until an alarm blares from the general direction of the prison complex. Within moments it is echoed nearby, and Porthos’ ears ache as it seems to blare from every direction. 

“Damn this to every Sith Hell,” Porthos grits out between clenched teeth. He sprints the last hundred yards to the gate leading from the respectable neighborhoods to the slums, sliding through as it closes and hoping  _ very much _ that the guards atop the wall are susceptible to the Force compulsion he and Athos are projecting.

“Agreed,” Athos mutters, now leading them down a back alley at a dead run.

Porthos pities Dell, who bounces painfully on his shoulder and groans quietly as Porthos keeps pace with Athos, who is thankfully pushing garbage and discarded bits of furniture out of their way with the Force. Porthos leaps a bedraggled body at the end of the alley and slips in something that smells disconcertingly like human refuse, barely keeping his feet as he barrels around a corner - and is nearly knocked back again by the sudden strength of Aramis’ call.

He has found somewhere to hide, and just in time.

\------------

What Aramis has found is a pay-by-the-hour hotel, if it can even be called that, above an illegal 24 hour bar. It reeks of bodily fluids, and there are things scuttling in the corners that he is careful not to look at. There were enough creepy-crawlies in the desert to last him a lifetime - of course there are even more in this hellish swamp. 

He makes quick work of stripping the sheets off of the one narrow bridge, relieved to find padded slats rather than a real mattress beneath - cleaner this way. With his shirt spread over it as a makeshift sheet it will do fine for their purposes.

The clamor of alarms continues, setting his teeth on edge, and Porthos and Athos stumble up the stairs with Dell slung between them just before a group of guards rushes past on the street. “Were you seen?” Aramis asks breathlessly, as if he was the one who had just carried a full grown man up two flights of rickety stairs.

“Only by the bar girl,” Athos replies, helping settle Dell on the bed. “I told her he had a few too many drinks, an compelled her to forget the blood. We will be safe until they decide to begin searching buildings.

“I...shall not live long enough for that to be a problem, I think,” Dell wheezes, blue blood flecking his lips. It’s the first time he’s spoken since the prison. 

“No, Master,” Aramis says sadly, dropping to his knees beside the bed. “I doubt you will. I am sorry.” He rummages around in his belt pouch, pulls out a small syringe, and jams its single dose of painkiller into Dell’s neck. “I will do my best to make you comfortable, and lend you the energy to tell us what we need to know, but your wounds are far beyond my talents to heal.”

“Do not apologize, young one. Only promise me you will find my padawan.”

Aramis glances nervously at Porthos, and busies himself with cleaning the blood and filth from Dell’s face.

“I’ve been lookin’ for him,” Porthos says, crouching beside Aramis and offering his headscarf. Aramis takes it, wets it with water from his hip flask, and goes back to work, pouring the Force into every touch and willing the old Master to live just a little longer. “He’s alive, but I can barely sense him. He’s too hurt to use the Force, or…”

“Or worse off than me. No,” Dell pauses to cough painfully, letting Aramis wipe the blood from his mouth before continuing. “No, it is not his day to die. The Force has let me glimpse his future at times. I--” another cough, accompanied by a groan of pain, “I have seen him knighted. He has a great destiny - one that I will not see. Do not let him die before it is fulfilled.”

“We’ll do our best,” Athos replies, carefully not making any false promises. Aramis is grateful for his ability to be the diplomatic one. “Can you help us locate him, Master? We will lend you our strength, if you will show us how to find him.”

Rather than speak, the old Master holds his hands out - one to Porthos, the other to Athos. Aramis rests his right hand palm down on the Master’s chest and lays the cool damp cloth over his forehead with the other. He closes his eyes as Athos and Porthos accept Dell’s hands, closing the circle. 

The air around Aramis tingles with energy, and suddenly too many consciouses are pressing up against his mental barriers, pulling at his life energy. Fighting the natural urge to push them away, he instead opens himself, reaches out to meet them, and pours what is left of his strength into the flickering, unfamiliar life force of Master Dell. The old man is barely holding on. This will be his last act, Aramis realizes, redoubling his efforts as he feels Dell reach beyond their small circle and into the night.

There is a bright spot in the warehouse district that Aramis failed to notice before. So weak that even Porthos missed it during his search. Flickering, fearful, doing its best to hide from them, but when Master Dell touches its shields it flares for a moment like a beacon.

“d’Artagnan,” Dell whispers through cracked lips. “They are coming for you, my padawan, they are--”

A fit of coughing pulls them all abruptly back to the dingy little room, where the rattling of Master Dell’s chest has grown quieter, more strained. A fine spray of blood coats Aramis’ cheeks as he leans over to look into the old man’s glassy eyes. “Master?”

“d’Artagnan,” Dell whispers. “You must find d’Artagnan.” And with that, he is gone, his presence in the Force disappearing abruptly with his last, strained breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come talk to me on tumblr @ the same username, or in the comments! I so appreciate feedback and the ability to geek out with other Musketeers & Star Wars nerds.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am the very worst. But, the last chapter is mostly written and will be up next weekend even if it kills me.
> 
> Thank you, as always, to fuzzytale for the beta read.

Athos would be humiliated, if he cared at all for the opinions of others. He is wearing nothing but his thin undershirt and leather pants, both of which are ripped and stained - and he is better off than his companions. On one side of him, Porthos walks down the street in a shirt soaked through with blue blood that even the darkness of night cannot hide, and on the other Aramis is bare-chested save for Athos’ stained sash, his ruined shirt abandoned back at the hotel where they left Master Dell’s body. A hard knot of guilt has formed in Athos’ stomach at leaving him like that - but soon enough he will be able to drink the feeling away. As soon as they find Dell’s missing padawan.

\-------------

Aramis scales the wall that separates the slums from the warehouse district with ease, only to be greeted at the top by a guard’s shocked face. The man - boy, really, Aramis realizes when he turns into the light of the two moons - opens his mouth, doubtless to shout a warning to the guards in the watchtower only a few yards away, but Aramis is faster.

“I’m very sorry about this,” he says, before bashing the guard over the head with the hilt of his lightsaber, He drops like a rock. Aramis hauls himself fully onto the top of the wall and looks down at him regretfully. It would have been far neater, and kinder, to mind trick the boy into sleeping, but Aramis is exhausted and his grip on the Force is tenuous. With no idea what still lies before them, he can’t risk wasting more energy now.

Without anything to gag or restrain the guard, Aramis settles for dragging him into the shadows and hoping that he will stay unconscious until they are well away. That done, he whistles the all-clear and stands back to let Porthos and Athos join him. They jump easily down on the other side as one and melt back into what little shadow remains. Alarms are still blaring all around them, and their faces are splashed on the bright screens on every corner. The stills are blurry, yes - probably taken from the palace security system - but recognizable as Athos and Aramis.

\-------------

The city is eerily abandoned at night. For Aramis, who has no memory of a life before Coruscant, a city-planet that never sleeps, it is deeply unsettling. At least the feeling of being watched by constant cameras is familiar - and he’s very adept at turning them to stare at the stars with a wave of his hand.

Dealing with the complicated lock on the door he leaves to Porthos, who has a talent for manipulating the physical world that Aramis lacks. “There’s life everywhere,” Porthos always says, as he moves the inanimate and makes sense of technology far beyond Aramis’ understanding. It doesn’t take long for the soft sound of tumblers falling into place to reach Aramis’ ears, just moments before Porthos hums in satisfaction and stands. The door hisses halfway open before sticking. Porthos shoulders it the rest of the way open and steps into the darkness beyond.

Following on his heels, Aramis breathes a sigh of relief when the warehouse’s thick walls muffle the wail of sirens outside. Athos brings up the rear, waving the door shut behind them and cutting off the only source of light. Aramis blinks several times to refocus his eyes and lets his other senses stretch out into the dark warehouse. The air tastes dry and dusty and carries with it the faint scent of small animals. He can hear them skittering across the floor in the darkness, fleeing ahead of him as he walks slowly forward.

“Do you sense him?” Aramis murmurs. The bright spot of Dell’s padawan has long faded from his mind, exhausted as he is. He hopes that his companions are faring better.

“Yes,” Athos replies from somewhere to his left.

“He’s here,” Porthos confirms from several steps ahead. “I can’t pin down where...kriff!”

There’s a thump, followed by more cursing, and a grunt of pain too high pitched to belong to Porthos. Only moments later something hard and narrow hits Aramis in the stomach, doubling him over with a groan. It’s a board, he thinks, as it cracks over his shoulders and drives him to his knees. Aramis lashes out, hits something that feels like a knee, but is a moment too slow to grab on and topple his attacker.

“d'Artagnan,” Athos calls out. Aramis hears another impact and a scuffle behind him.

“I will not return to that place!” The voice is young, cracking on every other word, and thick with pain. “I will die before you take me back there. Back where you killed my Master.”

“We are not here to take you back to prison, d'Artagnan.”

Aramis can picture Athos, hands out, wearing his ‘harmless peacemaker’ expression. He pushes back to his feet with a soft grunt and creeps silently toward the voices.

“You killed my Master!”

“We killed no one, boy,” Porthos growls. Yellow-orange light floods the room, or at least their small part of it. Porthos is holding his lightsaber aloft, casting a circle of light with Aramis at one edge and Athos at another, standing over a crumpled heap on the floor. “We were just too late to save him.”

“No!” d'Artagnan picks himself up off of the floor and launches himself at Athos. He has a limp, and dark stains on his ragged robes that must be blood. That is all Aramis sees before Athos ducks and tosses the boy easily over his shoulder - back into the darkness. Aramis edges closer, hand hovering over his own ‘saber.

“He speaks the truth. I am Knight Athos de la Fare, of the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. My companions are Knights Porthos du Vallon and Aramis. We were sent by the Council to locate a missing Master-Padawan pair - yourself and Master Dell. We came too late for your Master, but his last act was to help us find  _ you _ .”

“I don’t believe you,” d'Artagnan wheezes, straining against the boot Athos has planted on his chest. “My Master - I felt his pain...his fear...and I felt you with him. Jedi would have saved him.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Aramis snaps. He summons what is left of his energy, draws the Force into himself and all but shouts, “Sleep, child!”

d'Artagnan stilling beneath Athos is the last thing he sees before his vision grays out and his knees crumple from exhaustion. The floor is rushing up to meet him before something softer and warmer intercepts. Safe in Porthos’ grip, Aramis lets the exhaustion drag him into its welcoming darkness.

\------------

The first time d'Artagnan wakes, he’s sure he’s dead. Not the peaceful, one-with-the-Force sort of death promised by the Order, but a burning, sulfurous Sith hell. Everything is on fire. Someone, far away, is screaming. And there’s a vast empty space where his chest is supposed to be.

“Rest, boy,” a distant voice says, and blessed darkness swallows him back up.

\-----------

The second time he wakes, d'Artagnan has enough sense to realize he is alive. The raging fire of before has quieted to a dull throb throughout his body, and the yawning hole in his chest feels smaller, or further away - he’s not sure which. Blinking open eyes that feel swollen and crusted, he finds himself staring up at a durasteel ceiling and the profile of a pale, bearded man.

“Welcome back to the lands of the living,” the man says softly, glancing at him sidelong. d'Artagnan feels a prickle of recognition at the sound of his voice, but his memory is fogged with pain and exhaustion. For now, it is enough to know that he doesn’t appear to be in a prison, and his companion is too tall and too pale to be a native of Da’nat. “My name is Athos, if you do not remember it. I am a Jedi knight, and my companions and I were sent to rescue you. You are aboard our ship en route to Coruscant.”

d'Artagnan licks his lips, his tongue dry and thick. His first attempt to speak is little more than a croak, but his second forms actual words. “My Master...where? He’ll want to know I’m awake…”

This Athos gives away nothing in his expression as he turns fully to face d'Artagnan. His pale eyes are calm, his face relaxed, as he shakes his head slowly. “You know the answer already, d'Artagnan. Your Master is…”

“Dead,” d'Artagnan finishes. The chasm in his chest seems to gape further as he reaches for the warmth of his Master’s presence in the Force and finds...nothing. Nothing but the sound of far away screams and the taste of copper.

“d'Artagnan!” Someone shouts, and he snaps back to himself to find his arms pinned by his sides and Athos looming above him. The screams, he realizes, were coming from his own hoarse throat. As he calms, the empty feeling recedes again, still hovering at the edges of his awareness but somehow distant.

“You must not fight me,” Athos chides, releasing him. “I know something of what it is like to lose a Master, to have your Force bond severed while it is in use. It has driven better beings than you and I insane. I am shielding you from the worst of it, but you must let me. Just until you are in the care of the Temple healers.”

“What if I don’t want your help?” d'Artagnan grits out through clenched teeth. He’s cold, yet still sweating, and unable to think about the empty space where his Master’s presence used to live - and the tenuous barrier keeping him from probing it. “You let my Master die. I don’t want anything from you.”

Athos sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose, like nothing so much as a put upon creche master.

But it’s not him who answers.

“I am truly sorry, young one,” says a weak voice. d'Artagnan turns his head and finds that they aren’t alone, that in fact there’s another man sitting cross-legged in a bunk across from his, with an IV pumping fluid into his tan arm. The man’s eyes are closed. d'Artagnan blushes anyway, suddenly very conscious that he was screaming bloody murder only moments ago.

“Athos is no healer,” the other man continues. “It was I who failed to heal your Master. I did my best, but it was not enough, and in his last moments he chose to expend his energy - and ours - on locating you. On asking us to save you. And so we did. I am sorry that I did not have the skill to do both.”

An awkward silence falls as the man drops his head into his hands, and d'Artagnan stares at him, until long minutes later it is broken by a sob.

\-----------

Athos is useless at this comforting business. He pats d'Artagnan’s back awkwardly as the boy sobs into his own hands, and wishes for a drink, and ignores the soft snuffles from behind him. He does not have the energy to comfort Aramis too. As soon as Porthos’ shift in the pilot’s chair is finished, Athos flees to take his place - and take up the bottle of whiskey beneath his console.


	5. Epilogue

Meditation is key to Athos’ sanity - and to his sometimes tenuous grip on the light side of the Force. He can meditate drunk or sober, in the silent peace of the Temple or with bombs shaking the walls around him on some far flung planet in the outer rim. He cannot, however, meditate with Plo Koon staring at the side of his head like he can see inside of it. The thought makes his skin crawl.

“Master,” he murmurs, inclining his head respectfully without opening his eyes. He is so tired that he doubts he could make them focus if he did. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“I came to check on the boy,” the old Kel Dor responds, stepping closer. Athos tracks his progress through the room by sound, barely able to make out his soft footsteps over the beeps and whirs of medical machinery. “I did not expect to find you here, not after the healers took custody of young d’Artagnan.”

“The healers, yes, but not the mindhealers.” Annoyance seeps into his tone despite his best efforts, and he sighs. “They are, it seems, too busy to tend to him before he wakes - but if they do not, he will wake screaming from nightmares of death, perhaps with irreparable damage to his psyche.”

“Perhaps,” Master Koon replies. There is a rustle of fabric, and Athos sneaks a glance through his eyelashes to find that the Master has made himself at home in one of the chairs beside d’Artagnan’s medical bed. That is exactly what he needs to top off a series of missions from hell - a meddling High Council member disturbing what little peace he has found. “I will bow to your superior knowledge on the subject, of course, but from Knight du Vallon’s report to the Council it sounds as though you have been shielding him for days without a break. I worry that you are overtaxing yourself.”

“I know my limits, Master.” And it’s true. He does. He is simply choosing to ignore them in favor of sitting guard over a boy he barely knows, pouring his energy into a shield he cannot make permanent, not without d’Artagnan’s help. “I suspect it is not that which worries you, Master Koon, or any of the other Council members who have so kindly stopped to check on us. I certainly don’t remember ever having the entire Council chamber worry at my bedside as a padawan.”

Plo Koon chuckles, the sound distorted by his mask. “Then what  _ do _ you think our motivations are, young one?”

“I suspect you are concerned that I have become attached,” Athos says, keeping his voice as dispassionate as possible. “Bonded to this boy by a sense of kinship over the loss of a Master. Or, perhaps worse, that this has brought back the death of my own Master.” In response to a soft huff of amusement from Master Koon, Athos raises his eyebrows and turns his head toward the Master. “Am I wrong?”

“Not entirely,” Master Koon admits. “But you think the worst of us, young one, when we are only concerned for your wellbeing.”

_ You are concerned for my usefulness to the Order, _ Athos thinks bitterly, and unfairly. Master Koon has been nothing but kind to him over the years - it’s the meddling of the Council that raises his hackles. “There is no need for concern, Master. As soon as the boy wakes I will turn him over to the mindhealers and detach myself. Send Treville to check on me if you must, but he will tell you the same.”

“Perhaps.” Another shuffle of robes, and when Athos finally opens his eyes Master Koon is standing again, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe. Athos can only guess at his expression - he thinks it might be amusement, but the mask makes it so hard to tell. “After the boy wakes, the Council would like your full report. In person. Your companions have already provided theirs.”

“Yes, Master,” Athos replies, nodding tiredly, and adds it to the long list of things he must do before he can finally rest in his own bed.

\------------

“If I may be excused, Masters....” Athos is half-bent into a bow when Master Windu clears his throat pointedly.

“You may not, Knight la Fere. The Council has one more matter to discuss with you.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, Athos straightens his bruised and exhausted body, pulls his shoulders back, and clasps his hands behind his back. Frankly, it is all he can do to keep his eyes open after spending twenty hours guarding d’Artagnan’s mind from itself. He cares very little what they want, but he will do his duty as best he can. If his Master taught him nothing else - and the man taught him much - it is that he must always do his duty, no matter the cost.

“Too young to be knighted, young d’Artagnan is,” Yoda says, tapping his cane on the floor. “Agree, do you?”

“Yes, Master Yoda,” Athos replies slowly, his mind whirring into overdrive. Why could they possibly want his opinion on the boy? “He’s inexperienced and hurting. He is not prepared for knighthood. But he shows great potential. I’m sure an experienced master will help him grow into a great Jedi.”

“I have no doubt they would,” Master Windu agrees. “But the Force has shown us another path for the boy. He shall be your first padawan, la Fere. It is well past time for you to do your duty to the next generation of the Order.”

Athos’ mouth works silently, tasting a thousand protests before he stutters dumbly, “I am not ready for this honor, Masters. The boy deserves--”

“Never ready, you will be, if continue to doubt yourself you do.” Yoda descends slowly from his chair, walks stiffly down the short stairs, and shuffles to stand in front of Athos. As always, it feels uncomfortably disrespectful to tower over the wizened old Master, yet Athos knows it would be worse to kneel. “Ignore the will of the Force, you do?”

“No, Master. But perhaps the Force meant someone else. Porthos would be a wise and patient master for the boy - kriff!” Athos bites his tongue until it bleeds to keep a flood of curses in. The old troll is far stronger than he looks, and a cane to the knee hurts no less now than it did in his youth. “Ignore it you shall not. Your padawan, the boy d’Artagnan will be.”

“I know it’s unconventional,” Master Windu breaks in again, before Athos can say anything else that will get him hit. Athos does not even bother to look up at him, biting down on his tongue even harder. “But the Force has shown us this very clearly. This is your path to walk, Athos. d’Artagnan will be your padawan. The ceremony will be performed when he is released from the infirmary. Do you understand?”

_ No _ , Athos wants to say, wants to rage and throw things - and drink until he forgets this whole conversation. Instead he clamps down on his mental shields and nods stiffly. “I will do my duty, Masters.”

“Very well. You are dismissed - with strict orders to  _ rest _ .”

Athos bows deeply to hide his furrowed brow and frown, and flees the room before any of the other Council members get an urge to meddle in his affairs. Kriff rest - he goes in search of a bottle.

\------------

The ceremony takes place at dawn on the fifth day after their arrival on Coruscant, as the sun is rising over the Eastern tower. Athos is sober, yet it still passes in a blur. One moment he is kneeling beside d'Artagnan, looking up at Master Treville, who is taking the place his own former Master should - would - occupy if not for him. The next, he and his new padawan are stepping out into the hall, the Force tense and crackling between them along their new training bond.

Before Athos can even speak a word to the boy, a heavy arm settles over his shoulders and two sets of familiar footsteps sync with his own. Looking right, he raises an unimpressed brow at Aramis, who has reeled him in close. To the left, Porthos has done the same to a startled looking d'Artagnan.

“So,” Aramis says, a grin on his face that portends trouble. “We have a padawan.”

“ _ I _ have a padawan,” Athos drawls, trying to shrug Aramis off half-heartedly. “As well as two pains in the ass who will not leave me alone.”

“My friend, you wound me!”

“I am sure you will recover.”

“He will,” Porthos agrees with a laugh. “But the boy may never recover from your handling. And we swore an oath, never to let harm come to each other. That extends to him now, too.”

“We were children,” Athos points out. He has a sinking feeling he is losing this argument, but he must at least try to uphold the code - sometimes he seems to be the only one among them who does. “A blood pact between 8 year olds hardly applies to my padawan. d'Artagnan, please ignore them.”

“A promise sealed with blood and the Force is hardly a thing to trifle with, dear Athos,” Aramis replies. “One for all, and all that.”

“Now, let’s take our new padawan to the training room. See what he’s really made of, eh?”

Athos opens his mouth to make one more, token protest, then glances sideways at his padawan and lets it fall shut again. Perhaps they are right. After all, only yesterday Athos himself was arguing that he was not ready for a padawan, and he knows it to be true. But, all together, they may just be able to make a knight of d'Artagnan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with me til the end, despite the delays! There is a sequel in the works about Padawan d'Artagnan and his 3 Masters, but I want to get a few more chapters into it before I start posting. Snippets will likely appear on my tumblr (same username as here) before they make it to AO3.
> 
> As always, comments are lovely and inspiring.

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on tumblr as 


End file.
